Desert Rat
Copyright© 2026 by Mark Randall
Chapter 3
As the old man entered the saloon, he paused to let his eyes get used to the darkness. Along the right side of the room was a makeshift bar consisting of a couple of wood planks set up on barrels. On the left side was a set of stairs leading to a balcony that wrapped around the upper story. Scattered between the bar and the stairs were 5 sets of tables and chairs.
A pair of dusty cowboys sat at one table with a bottle. After glancing at the old man, they went back to their bottle.
As the old man stepped up to the bar, he placed a nasty-looking shotgun on the bar top. The bartender ambled over, checking the new patron over. “What kin I do fer ya granpaw?”
“Whiskey an a beer.” he answered
“You got it, that is iffn you kin pay? Whiskey’s 2 bits and beer’s a nickel.”
Digging through a rawhide pouch, the old man pulled a coin out and dropped it on the bar. “Feller over ta the sheriffs office said he’d front me the whiskey. Here’s the slug fer the brew.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Turning to the swamper, he said, “Abner, go get Sheriff Montgomery, tell him we got us another deadbeat.”
As Abner scrambled towards the door, the old man asked, “What about my beer. I paid my indian, I still gets muh beer.”
The bartender stepped over to the taps and drew a fresh mug for the old man. Setting the mostly foam glass in front of him, he scooped up the nickel and slid it into his pocket.
The swamper, obeying the bartender’s order, was making a beeline to the entrance. But as he was going out, he was shoved to the side by a young cowboy coming into the saloon.
The new arrival stomped up to the bar and loudly ordered whiskey.
The bartender, obviously nervous, said, “Now Kurt, you know that Sheriff Montgomery said you weren’t to have any whiskey. I can get ya a beer, but no whiskey.”
The young tough’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at the bartender. “Perkins, I told you I wanted whiskey.” His hand dropped to the pistol on his hip.
Knowing that the sheriff was on his way, the bartender shakily poured him a shot and then stepped back from the bar. He was prepared to bolt and run at the least hint.
Slugging down the shot, Kurt turned to the rest of the room. He loudly proclaimed, “I am Kurt Avery, and I want to know who was the backshooting bastard that killed my brother.” He then turned and glared at the old man who was at the end of the bar.
“Was it you, ya old fart?” He demanded.
Foster didn’t say anything, just took another sip of his beer.
“I’m talking to you, old man. Are you the one who killed my brother?”
“Don’t know bout that youngster. I kilt a claim jumper. Folks are sayin’ he be a wanted crim’nal.”
“So, you did kill him.” The tough had stepped away from the bar and was facing the old man. “You killed him, now I’m going to kill you.”
As the old man slowly lifted his beer mug to his mouth, with his right hand, the Avery boy pulled his pistol.
Before he could get his pistol aimed, there was a deafening roar, and young Kurt Avery was blown backwards. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The old man stepped away from the bar and opened his shotgun. He plucked the spent shell from the chamber and pulled a fresh round from the bag slung from his shoulder and loaded it into the shotgun. There was a foot-long scorch on the bar top from the shotgun blast.
The smell of gun smoke was still heavy in the air, when Sheriff Thompson burst into the room, gun drawn. “What in the holy hell is going on in here?” he demanded.
Hyrum, the bartender, slowly rose up from his hiding place behind the bar. Pointing a shaking finger towards the old man, he stammered. “That old bastard just blew Kurt Avery ta hell.”
Ellis looked at the old man, who had returned to his beer. The foot long scorch mark on the bar top was still slightly smoking.
“What’s the story, Foster?” He asked
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